“Do you know?” she said. “That’s a very intriguing idea.
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There are plenty of studies of modern criminals – even the Mafia has been looked into by anthropologists and criminologists. But, as far as I know, nobody has actually gone and lived with pirates.”
“And would you?” asked Dilly.
“I feel like a change,” said Domenica. “I’m fed up. I need a new challenge.”
“This will be challenging,” said Dilly, expressing a note of caution. “In fact, I wonder if it would be altogether wise. These people sound as if they are rather desperate characters. They might not appreciate . . .”
But it was too late for caution. Domenica had gone to New Guinea on impulse; she had carried out her ground-breaking study of bride-price procedures amongst the Basotho on the passing suggestion of a colleague; and she had spent an entire year among the Inuit of the North-West Territories simply because she had seen a striking picture of the Aurora Borealis, pictured from Yellowknife. Pirates now beckoned in exactly the same way, and the call would be answered.
“It’s a marvellous idea,” Domenica said. “I shall get in touch with the Royal Anthropological Institute. I imagine that they’ll be positive about it.”
“We shall miss you,” said Dilly, “when you’re with the pirates.”
“Oh, I expect they’re on e-mail these days,” said Domenica.
“I shall keep in touch.” They said goodbye to one another at the front door of the bookshop and Domenica began the walk back to Scotland Street. On the surface, it was an outrageous idea; but then so many important anthropological endeavours must have seemed outrageous when first conceived. This would certainly be difficult, but once one had established contact, and trust, it would be much the same as any fieldwork. One would observe the households. One would study family relationships.
One would look at the domestic economy and the ideological justification structure (if any). It would, in many senses, be mundane work. But
333
After Big Lou had burst into the gallery, full of her good news, and had burst out again, Matthew and Pat sat quietly around a desk, sorting out the photographs for a catalogue that they were planning.
“I’m very pleased for Big Lou,” Matthew said. “She had written him off, you know. She thought she’d seen the last of him.”
“She deserves some good luck,” said Pat. “I hope that he’s good for her.”
“Big Lou can look after herself,” said Matthew. “She’s strong.”
Pat disagreed, at least in part. “And it’s often the strong women who suffer the most,” she said. “You’d be surprised, Matthew. Strong women put up with dreadful men.”
“Anyway,” said Matthew, “the important thing is that Big Lou is happy.”
“Yes,” said Pat. “That’s good.”
Matthew looked at Pat. It made her uncomfortable when he looked at her like that; it was almost as if he were reproaching her for something.
“And I’m feeling pretty happy too,” he said. “Do you know that? I’m feeling very happy this morning.”
“I’m glad,” said Pat. “And why is that?”
“That talk I had with my old man,” said Matthew. “It was
. . . well, shall we say that it was productive.”
Pat waited for him to continue.
“I was wrong about Janis,” went on Matthew. “I thought that she wasn’t right for him.”
“In what way?” asked Pat. “Too young?”
“That . . . and in other ways,” said Matthew. “But I was wrong.
And now I know that one shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”
“And you told him this?” asked Pat.
“I did. And he was really nice to me – really nice. He said something very kind to me. And then . . .”
Pat waited. She was pleased by this reconciliation – she liked Gordon and she had thought that Matthew had been too hard on him.
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Matthew seemed to be debating with himself whether to tell Pat something. He opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. But at last he spoke.
“He was very generous to me,” he said. “He gave me some money.”
“That’s good of him,” said Pat. “He’s done that before, hasn’t he?”
“Oh yes, he’s done that before. But never on this scale.”
Pat sighed. “My father gave me fifty pounds last week,” she said. “How much did you get? A hundred?”
Matthew looked down at the desk and picked up a photograph of a painting. It was of a sheep-dog chasing sheep; the sort of painting that nineteenth-century artists loved to paint, on a large scale, for upwardly mobile
